Lassiter And The Valentine
by Loafer
Summary: COMPLETE. An early Valentine story about the friendship between Lassiter and Juliet. It WAS a one-shot, but now it's not. And it's more than friendship. Curses. Another Lassiet after all!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer**: _**psych**_ not mine, no ownership claimed. You know. All that.

**Rating**: T

**Summary**: Valentine's Day is still a ways off but this story about Carlton & Juliet's friendship popped into my head and demanded to be written down. Don't worry, Shules-ians, she's still with Shawn. (Update: for now!)

**. . . .**

**. . .**

"What do you want for Valentine's Day, O'Hara?"

They were driving across town to talk to a man about a mongoose theft (but only because the mongoose turned up at the scene of a murder) (the mongoose was not a suspect), and Lassiter was trying to distract himself from being annoyed by traffic. It made Juliet nervous when he reached for his weapon while approaching stoplights.

Juliet turned, smiling. "Are you going to be my Valentine?"

He was embarrassed, and looked out the window with ruthless determination to appear completely impervious to her in every possible way. "You already have one. I was just interested in what women want these days."

She hesitated. "Oh, because of Marlowe?"

Lassiter, eyes still straight ahead, said stiffly, "No."

"No? But… oh, you're worried about what she can have in prison."

"No," he said again. _Might as well say the rest; she'll figure it out eventually anyway_. "She asked me to stop coming to see her."

"Carlton, what?" She was all concern. "What happened?"

He shrugged. "She... she said it wasn't fair for me to wait since she didn't know what was going to happen when she got out." It hurt a little to say it out loud, but not as much as he'd expected.

"I thought things were going well. I thought she—"

"So did I." He slowed to make a turn, saying more casually (there was at least a _slim_ chance she'd believe he could be casual), "It was stupid to think we could form a real relationship based on hour-long visits once a week."

"It wasn't stupid." Her tone was insistent, and he couldn't look at her now because she cared about him and seeing it in her eyes would make his heart twist. "And you seemed to have really connected before she... went in."

_Yeah right_, he thought, impatient with himself. "Based on a three-minute conversation in a bar where her goal was to help her brother drain my blood, and then a five minute conversation in her house before you showed up, and then one rather magnificent make-out session before you and half the SBPD threatened to break the door down. It _was_ stupid, O'Hara. Certainly naive." After all these years it still surprised him that he could tell her things he wouldn't tell anyone else. Why? When would he learn?

"The heart wants what it wants," Juliet said gently, "and there's nothing wrong with being a little naive when really it's just hope. What's her release date? Is she going to get in touch?"

"The way she keeps getting thrown in solitary, it's hard to say. But she'll have a lot to work through, putting her life back together." He was sorry he'd brought it up. He felt ridiculous, having expected anything at all to go right where his heart was concerned.

"I'm sorry, Carlton," Juliet said very softly.

"It's okay." He knew he sounded gruff. "Thanks." _Dammit_. _Subject change_. "So what's on your wish list for Valentine's? Do women still want flowers and candy and expensive jewelry?"

After a pause (during which he could feel her studying him), she allowed the change, laughing a little. "Oh, you know, what women really want is just to know their men care."

"By way of flowers and candy and jewelry," he said dryly. He hadn't forgotten Victoria's very specific demands.

"No," she protested. "For some women, yes, of course, that's how they know how much value a guy places on her. But I… I'd rather have something to show me he _thought_ about it. Like, I'd be more impressed with fresh flowers, hand-picked—and not stolen out of someone's yard, either," she clarified, and he knew she was thinking of Spencer. "Or if it's candy, something really whimsical or homemade. And for jewelry, I'd rather have something pretty instead of expensive. Something I can wear to work without worrying it'll be ripped off my neck or spattered with blood." She sighed. "I know not all women are the same, but for me it's about being made to feel special because he cares about _me_. Not just that he's working from a standard checklist."

Lassiter pulled into the parking lot of the condo building which was their destination and parked, but neither made a move to get out. He felt a little sorry for her, having Spencer to deal with, but she was still with the doof, so she must be happy enough. "This is your first Valentine's together."

She looked up, sighing a little, her expression hard to read, but was that... wistfulness? "Yes. I... I'm sure it will be... colorful."

"What do you want?" he asked, not sure why, except that he suspected Spencer's first instinct would be to give her what _he_ wanted, not what she did. "I mean, what do you really want?" He realized, as soon as he asked, that she might say something horrific like 'a proposal,' and honestly there was no way he could respond well to that, _so please, God, don't let her say anything to make me hurl_.

She studied her hands for a moment. "Well, like I said, I… I want to know I matter." Looking up at him, smiling a little, she added, "That I matter enough to warrant the time it would take to make it _personal_."

He rejected a large number of snarky comments about Spencer in favor of a simple question. "Do you think he understands that?"

Juliet sighed quite deeply, and turned her gaze out the window. "His heart's usually in the right place. I think he'll do or say something that he's sure will matter to me but which happens to actually matter more to him."

Yeah. "Like a bounce house on your birthday," he muttered.

Fortunately, she seemed amused. "Yes, like a bounce house on my birthday. I'm sorry, I shouldn't be saying any of this. I know you have a low tolerance for Shawn and it can't be easy to try to be supportive of me when he's…" Another sigh. "Anyway, thanks."

He was silent at first, because again, he couldn't decide which potentially disastrous thing to say. _Leave the idiot; shoot the idiot; you deserve better; hell, _I'm_ better, and I'm not better at all_.

"O'Hara," he finally said, "I have a high tolerance for _you_. And you're welcome."

"Thank you, Carlton." She managed a smile. "Let's go see about a mongoose, shall we?"

Heading up the sidewalk, and he wasn't sure why he was so curious, he asked her again, "But what _would_ you consider a good gift from Spencer? I mean if he got it right?"

"Oh…" She paused and looked up at him. "I… nothing I can really explain, I don't think. Really, it's not important." Touching his arm lightly, she went on ahead to talk to the mongoose man, and Lassiter followed slowly, thinking about all of this.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

"Lassie, you are just the man I need to see. Not that I often need to see a man, but today, I need to see a man, and you are that man."

Lassiter looked up at Spencer, flanked by the ubiquitous Guster. "What?"

Spencer looked around in an exaggerated fashion. "Jules isn't here, right?"

"She's in court. I'm sure you can find your way over there." He resumed entering data, but this did not have the desired effect of banishing Spencer.

"Lassie, I _need_ you."

"That's creepy, Shawn."

"Yes it is, Guster, so why don't you encourage your friend to leave?"

"Because he's got my car keys."

Lassiter glanced at Guster and knew it had to be true by his slightly cramped expression. "Would you like to file a complaint? I can access the forms right here and we'll have him in a cell in no time."

"It's tempting, I admit—"

"Guys!" Spencer interrupted. "Let's focus. Lassiefrass, as much as I hate to say this, you spend more time with Jules than I do."

"Brilliant observation, Spencer, since she and I have worked together for six years."

"Right. That means you know the day-to-day Jules better than I do."

"Damn straight," Lassiter agreed, sitting back in his chair.

Spencer looked pained. "Help me out, man; it's our first Valentine's Day together and I want it to be right."

Crap. His chest tightened and all he could think was _what in the hell did I do to deserve _this_ moment?_ "You're supposed to be psychic. Use your awesome powers," he said acidly.

Guster, unexpectedly, rose to Spencer's defense. "Lassiter, if he screws this up _you'll_ have to deal with the aftermath. Do you really want Juliet to be unhappy?"

_Unhappy enough to dump Spencer? Well_… He stood up, knowing he had to do the right thing for his partner, even if it killed him. "If you've paid attention to her at all the past few months, Spencer, you already know. She wants to feel special. Get her something to make her see how special she is."

"Special," Spencer muttered. "But how do I top the bounce house? How can _anyone_ top that?"

Good Lord. "_Try_." He started to move around them but Spencer got into his path.

"I'm serious. Help me out. Does she like parade floats? I still have a few days; I could probably rent a Winnie The Pooh. She likes Winnie, right? Or maybe I could sign her up for the Donut of The Month Club over at Bobo's. Something to last all year. What's better than that, right? Let me see your credit card, Gus."

Lassiter snapped, "First of all, no. Not just no, but _hell_ no. To both ideas. For damn sure, use your _own_ money to pay for whatever crack-headed scheme you come up with. This is supposed to be _your_ gift to your girlfriend, not Guster's."

Guster muttered, "You know that's right."

Lassiter ignored him. "Most importantly, you nimrod, whatever you do needs to be about her. What _she_ likes. What _she_ wants. What makes _her_ happy. Not you. And if you don't know enough about O'Hara by now to get that right, then nobody can help you." He stared down at him, wishing he had the legal authority to box him up and send him to the site of an active volcano, or a nuclear meltdown, or maybe just into a room full of rampaging rabid raccoons—whatever it would take to stop Spencer from screwing this up.

Spencer was staring at him, gears obviously whirring in his head. "Yeah. Yeah, I get it. Yeah!" He clapped Lassiter on the shoulder and turned to Guster. "Okay, we have to get down to Party City. I need three hundred balloons and enough candy sprinkles to fill a bathtub. Then we need some frosting and a fire truck. Do you think we—what?"

Guster was exasperated. "Didn't you listen to one thing he said? You have to think smaller, Shawn. It doesn't have to be big to get her attention. It just needs to be special."

"But it will be! Don't you see? I'll use the confetti to—where are you going?" He seemed genuinely puzzled that Guster was striding away.

Lassiter said, with more feeling than usual, "You're an _idiot_."

Spencer grinned. "Maybe, but I'm an idiot with a _plan_, Lassie-face. An awesome-tastic plan, and I owe it all to you. Thanks!" He took off after Guster.

_Crap_. Now _he'd_ get blamed for the inevitable disaster.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter watched, privately morose, as Spencer fluttered around Juliet for the next few days. He knew, he just _knew_, that one of two things was going to happen.

Either Spencer was going to screw it up and end up making Juliet miserable, or he'd somehow stumble onto the perfect gift and make her deliriously happy.

In Scenario 1, Lassiter would be left with a dejected Juliet who would try to be brave and not discuss it. In Scenario 2, he would have to pretend to be happy Spencer got it right, and deal with Juliet's certain-to-be-poorly-disguised elation.

He supposed, in all honesty, that he'd rather have a happy Juliet around. Since she and Spencer seemed _inexplicably_ headed into some kind of future together—entirely because she was too good for the moron and would always forgive him—he'd rather have her be _sure_ than have doubts. And despite his inclinations, he knew _he_ couldn't feed the doubts she clearly already had. It was her heart at stake, after all, not his.

Finally it came down to something truly basic: Juliet was his friend and partner and there was a place in her life for him (not that he understood _that_ whatsoever).

And there _was_ something he could do for his friend.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

It was here. Valentine's Day.

When Juliet came into work, Lassiter stood in the corner by the filing cabinet ostensibly looking for something. He could look busy. Usually he _was_ busy, but at the moment he knew there was no chance of concentrating on anything, and anyway, he wanted to watch her when she got to her desk, and from here he had a clear shot.

First, the steaming mug of coffee, placed thirty seconds after he saw her parking her car.

He could see the side of her face, and the curve of her smile, and she picked up the mug for a slow, careful sip while looking down at the other objects on her desk.

Second, the bunch of wildflowers, tied with a violet ribbon. Last week they'd gone to a floral shop to follow up with a witness, and he'd noticed how her gaze kept drifting to the pretty little bundles of flowers in the window, more so than to the flashier arrangements of roses and orchids.

She lifted the little bouquet to her face and breathed deeply; the smile was still there.

Third, cupcakes. He'd baked a full dozen last night—red velvet, one of her favorites—but had placed just three, swirled in cream cheese frosting, on a small dish next to the flowers. He figured she'd share with Spencer and Guster, and if he'd given her all twelve, she'd have been lucky to get one for herself.

Her smile was broader now—he wished he could see her eyes—as she dipped one fingertip into the frosting for a taste.

Finally, and this was the thing that made him so nervous, and so convinced he was an idiot who would regret this pathetic gesture, the small flat box.

Was her hand trembling as she picked it up? He couldn't quite tell from here.

It contained earrings—delicate silver dolphins. He'd found them at a resale shop she'd once told him was her favorite for odds and ends of jewelry and off-work clothes, and he didn't know why exactly but they seemed right for her. Reminiscent of the sea, of her home back in Miami. Something she could wear to work which wouldn't be likely to be grabbed off her by a perp and would go with most everything she wore.

He wasn't actually worried she'd like them, and God knows she'd say she did even if she didn't.

What he was worried about was the bit of paper inside the box. The one on which he'd written only "You matter to me" and signed with his initial. That's what he was worried about.

She opened the box, lifted the earrings out and held them carefully while she read the note.

For a second she didn't do anything, but then, to his shock, she put her hand up to her face and wiped a tear off her cheek.

_Oh God, I made her cry_. _Oh hell, oh damn, oh God no, you moron, no_.

But… but… but the smile was still there.

For a minute, she was motionless, staring at her desk. Then she took a deep breath—he saw the rise of her shoulders—and turned straight for him. He was trapped in that corner—_so much for your tactical skills, Detective_—and felt more than a bit helpless as she approached.

"Thank you so much, Carlton," she whispered, still unmistakably misty-eyed, and stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

He felt his face warming but couldn't take his eyes off her; she was glowing. "You're welcome. Happy Valentine's Day. I know I'm not the one who's supposed—I mean, I'm not your—but anyway, yeah."

There was a touch of laughter in her eyes, and she put her hand on his arm. "Last week when you asked me what I really wanted, I was… I didn't tell you, but I will now." She stepped back the slightest bit, and took a breath. "I… I wanted the most important man in my life to do something… or say something… or give me something or _make_ me something, it didn't matter what, which would be so special and sweet—and _just for_ _me_—that it would… well, that it would make me cry. That the joy of what he did for me would make me cry."

As he was forming the thought that she looked to be full of joy right now, she put her cool hand up to wipe a smudge of lipstick from his cheek.

"And look," she went on softly, blue-gray eyes brimming.

"What is it?" His voice was almost a whisper too; she was mesmerizing him.

"You _did_." She leaned up and kissed his face again. "You did, Carlton."

While he was absorbing the utter magical sweetness of her words, she added, breath warm against his ear, "No matter what else happens the rest of the day, _nothing_ will mean more than what you did for me just now."

His heart was pounding and he really had no coherent words at all. He could only stare at her, and nod, and know—because he did know—that she understood.

"And check your top drawer," she added with a smile, "while I go drink a magnificent cup of coffee."

Dammit, now it was his hand trembling, but fortunately there were no witnesses. He managed to wrest the drawer open to find a similar small flat box. There was a card with it, a simple seascape with her signature and the words, "Thank you for asking what was important to me."

The box contained a tie clip, and he could tell it was a Glock before he looked at the attached tag. He couldn't stop the grin, and affixed the clip to his tie immediately, glancing up to see her watching—and smiling—from her desk. She tapped her ears to show she was wearing the dolphins, and if his face were any more flushed he'd need to be hosed down.

In a little while, as he pretended to work, he heard the message beep on his phone.

The text was short.

_Thank you, Carlton._

His answer was short as well.

_Happy Valentine's Day, Juliet._

Because however it turned out for her, it was the best one _he_ could ever remember having.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

_[Author's note: Lawson227, I borrowed (okay, flat-out stole) the baking habit characteristic from your version of Carlton. Hope you don't mind.]_

_[P.S. Yeah... apparently I'm weak, and went on to write more of this thing.]_


	2. Chapter 2

_(It was a one-shot. It really was. But look... **look** what Lawson made me do. LOOK!)_

**CHAPTER TWO**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Well.

Lassiter lay on his back, in the darkness, trying to calm himself.

His arm was around Juliet's shoulders; she lay beside him, half on him, her breathing a little fast.

"This wasn't what I expected," he said conversationally.

"Me either."

"It was supposed to go a little differently." He could smell her hair, feel her arm across his chest and her leg draped across his, and it was all much too distracting.

"Roger that." She shifted, her knee slipping between his. "Sorry, just trying to get comfortable."

"No problem." Sure, he could sound like this was no big deal.

Her head was warm on his shoulder, her soft hair tickling his neck. "So."

Damn, but she smelled good, even now. "Yeah?"

"Any… theories about how we're going to get out of here?"

"Not really, no."

To his surprise, she laughed. "Well, at least you're honest."

They had gone to check out a warehouse which reportedly stored the loot from a series of electronics thefts. It was a routine check; their money was on a warehouse down the street, and maybe, Lassiter admitted, he'd just been too tired, or maybe too complacent, to really watch his surroundings.

It only took a slow-motion minute or two for them to be surprised, divested of their guns and phones and stuffed into what amounted to a large coffin, barely big enough for the two of them.

"We got nailed," he said flatly, and was rewarded with her soft laughter.

It was actually a wooden box which had been used to ship something... _coffin_-like, presumably, and as he recalled, the box was on the floor near a ramp leading down to double doors.

Whatever its purpose, most assuredly it was a _sturdy_ box. After they were sure Lawson's gang of anti-American coke-snorting probably-vegan thieving punks had cleared off, they spent quite a few minutes kicking and shoving and pushing to no avail, in part because he didn't want to elbow her in the gut and she seemed to feel the same hesitation about him.

For now, they lay quietly in the dark. Six openings—too small for a hand—in the box provided airflow, so they weren't likely to suffocate. Yet.

"Someone will come for us," she said with resolve.

"Who? This wasn't even on our list of stops."

"Someone will figure it out," she insisted.

_She's thinking of Spencer_. Well, so what. Just let him hurry it up already if he was going to save the day.

"Not Shawn."

"What?" He couldn't have heard that right. She must have said _like Shawn_, or _come on, Shawn_, or...

"It won't be Shawn," she said more quietly, to his chest. "He's not psychic."

Ahhh... "He told you?"

"He told _you_?" she echoed.

"Of course not. I just never thought he was." _Duh_.

"I did. For a long time. But now I understand he's not." Her fingertips idly played with one of his shirt buttons. "He sees things faster than other people can, but he's not psychic. If he were, he..." She stopped. "Well. I wanted to believe the polygraph."

Lassiter knew he had to say this: "He wasn't lying about being in love with you."

"I know." She patted his chest. "Thank you."

"Stop being so understanding," he said somewhat impatiently. "Just get mad and tell me it's none of my business and I should butt out."

Juliet drew back as much as she could in the box, which was about two inches; he could feel her stare. "I have nothing to get mad about! You _are_ understanding. Most of the time when you want to let loose about what a jackass you think he is, you don't say anything at all." With unmistakable amusement, she added, "But the eye roll, now. That's your tell."

"I'm only human," he grumbled.

"And it _is_ kind of your business. I spend my days with you." She put her head back on his shoulder, and seemed comfortable.

"O'Hara..." He squeezed her shoulders, not sure how else to show his exasperation. "You're the only one who's allowed to judge whether he's a good boyfriend. Not me."

"That's very generous-minded of you, Carlton," she said, and her tone was sly. "What would you say if we weren't trapped in a box?"

"I wouldn't say anything at all."

"Exactly. For all your bluster, you're really very self-controlled."

He was mystified. "How did this turn into the Lassiter Appreciation Hour? I thought we were talking about how you knew Spencer's not psychic. _Did_ he tell you?"

"No. I just... come on. I could only fool myself for so long. He's got a remarkable gift, but it's not psychic ability. The only difference between him and Henry is that Shawn's got more hair and points to his forehead a lot."

He realized she was talking about her boyfriend in rather non-flattering terms. Almost like... like she was coming out of it? _Leave it alone, Lassiter_. "It wouldn't surprise me one bit if Henry taught him how to pass a polygraph."

"Me either. Henry's got a lot to answer for, but... on the other hand, Shawn does make his own choices." Again, her tone was reflective, neither making excuses nor particularly annoyed. Just thoughtful.

Lassiter took a moment to consider the oddness of this conversation. He and Juliet were physically closer than they'd ever been, trapped in a box from which they might not escape, and they were calmly discussing her idiot boyfriend. Life was damn weird.

"So do you," he said slowly.

She didn't answer right away, but the fingers playing with his shirt button moved a little more restlessly. "Yeah. I do."

"What do you choose?"

Again, a silence. Yet, given that he had no place to go right now, he could wait.

"I don't know."

"Come on, O'Hara. If we're going to die in this box, let's—"

"We are not going to die in this box!" She tapped on his chest firmly. "We're just taking a little break from freaking out about it."

"Trying to escape isn't freaking out."

"You said you'd sell your soul to get your Glock back."

He hrmphed. "Yeah, that'd be a bad trade for Satan."

Now she jabbed him in the side with her other hand. "Stop that, Carlton." She was glaring at him again; he could feel it. "You want the answer? About what I choose? I choose to be here with you rather than out there trying to figure out what to do about Shawn. I wouldn't feel that way if you were _anybody's_ bad trade."

Silence for a moment.

"Okay?" she persisted.

"Yeah. Okay." _Damn_. She did have a way of unsettling him.

After a bit, she asked, "You know what he got me for Valentine's Day?"

"I'm afraid to ask." He hadn't been able to tell by her mood last week what the outcome had been. She'd been neither dejected nor delirious according to his Scenarios 1 or 2, but Spencer hadn't come around beating his chest in manly pride for a job well done, so he figured there was a Scenario 3 to which he wasn't privy. "I know he was considering candy sprinkles and a fire truck."

Juliet sighed. "Of course he was. No, he took me to the petting zoo, obsessed over the bunnies, ate too much cotton candy, and round about the time he was giving me a gift card to Saks, he was also tossing up his lunch on my new shoes."

Lassiter looked at her, wishing he could see her expression. Really, if a criminal is going to trap you in a box, he could at least provide a night light. "I'm surprised."

"Really." Very dry.

"Just that he'd be sick. I thought he had an iron stomach by now."

"He said it was inferior sugar in the cotton candy."

"How much did he eat?"

"His, mine, and Gus'."

"Crap, he brought Guster on your Valentine's date?" _What an ass_!

Juliet didn't answer. He could feel her breath warming his skin through the fabric of his shirt.

"O'Hara?"

"You know how… in a thousand movies and TV shows, there's something about a child making a nice breakfast of cereal and juice for his mommy, and it's all heart-warming and sweet until he's run off to play outside and she gets up and goes into the kitchen where it looks like a bomb went off?"

Uh-oh. "Yeah?"

"That kind of behavior is cute when it's from a small boy. It's not so cute when he's 36 and you're dating him."

_Then stop dating him_. He squeezed her shoulders, thinking it best to say nothing at all.

She whispered, "I know I'm marking time, Carlton. Does that make me stupid?"

_Damn Spencer. Damn him_. "No. _No_, O'Hara. It makes you… hopeful. It makes you a wonderful person who hopes for the best."

Now her arm tightened across his chest, and she took a deep breath. "I guess we really ought to talk about how to get out of here."

Strangely enough, he felt no hurry. "All right. Lawson didn't kill us outright, so that's plus number one."

"And two through ten, I think."

"Agreed." He grinned. She was a good person to be trapped with, aside from the fact that she smelled nice and felt warm and soft against his body. "He took the phones, but he's not going to want to take a chance anyone will track the GPS and stumble on _him_, which means he probably dumped them. If he took the Vic, same rules apply."

"He's keeping the guns, but probably got rid of the phones fast."

"If he disabled them, GPS readings will show their last location; if he didn't, it'll show their current location. Since he didn't kill us, he thinks it's in his best interests to keep us alive, so the phones are probably right here in this warehouse."

Juliet lifted her head from his shoulder and asked, "Carlton? Are you being… _optimistic_?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Optimism and I have a long-standing feud."

She laughed, and how stupid was he to feel so good? "Okay, so if anyone back at the station is paying attention, there's a good chance GPS will lead them to the warehouse. Question is, are we going to wait around to find out?"

He was trying to remember the layout of the room. "We're at the top of a ramp, right? Didn't they move the box from an upright position against the wall to lying flat on the floor?"

"I think so."

"How far do you think we are from where the ramp starts?"

"Hmm. I was busy trying not to get groped by Lawson's thug, but I think maybe a foot or two. Why?"

Lassiter felt a flash of anger toward the thug, and tightened his arm around her shoulders. "Sorry. I should have—"

"Carlton, he was holding a gun to your head. You were preoccupied."

"Dammit, you… you always end up soothing me when you should be pissed off!"

"I'm not soothing you; I'm telling you the truth. Carlton," she persisted, "stop thinking everyone has the same low opinion of you that you do."

He muttered something rude, and was surprised when she kissed his cheek. "Oh, come on, that just makes it worse."

"Oh, really?" She was annoyed. "What about this? Does _this_ make it worse?" She grasped his jaw with her free hand, turned him to face her, and kissed his mouth, quite firmly, quite intently, and quite…

_Quite_. Whoa.

Releasing him, she went on briskly, "Now shut up already about being a bad trade or anything else and tell me your idea for getting us out of here."

Lassiter was speechless.

She poked him in the ribs. "Come on. Time's a wastin'."

"Uh… we roll."

Pause. "I feel I should point out that we're in a box, not a cylinder."

He had to get control of himself. "True. But if the _contents_ of the box work together, they might be able to tip the box onto its side and then over again. If we can make it to the ramp we might be able to keep rolling and maybe we can weaken the damned thing."

"Or not."

"I didn't say it was a _good_ plan."

"True. You didn't. And I have nothing better, so how do we start?"

Lassiter collected himself. _Forget the kiss. Forget it_. "Get on top of me and we'll throw our combined weight to the left." _Yeah, _what_ kiss?_

There was a pause.

_She thinks I'm a perv._

In the next second, she had done exactly as he asked, clambering to lie on top of him, fitting herself between him and the top of the box.

_Oh, hell._ Half a second of full-body-contact and he was already thinking things he had no business thinking.

_Fine, we can take of that problem right quick_. "Roll," he said abruptly. "On three."

As one, they slammed themselves to the left.

"Again…"

"Again…"

The box wasn't tipping, but it was moving, bit by bit, and he wished he could remember how far it was from the ramp.

It became clear soon enough, because quite suddenly the box did tip, and he yelled at her to keep throwing, only to the top if possible, and the box ended up on its side. _That_ was a tight squeeze for the two of them, and she yelled back for him not to stop and then THUD they were upside down as the box completed its roll.

Upside down—Lassiter on top of Juliet—and angled downward on the ramp.

"Hi," she said breathlessly.

"Hi," he said back, and God help him, he kissed her.

He hadn't meant to; hadn't even planned to—wouldn't go so far as to say he hadn't _thought_ of it, but certainly it was not on the agenda. But dammit to hell, he was lying on top of her and he must be completely addled because she was kissing him back.

He would have stopped, really, he would have, but she didn't seem to want to. In fact, if he weren't mistaken, Juliet O'Hara seemed very very interested in not only kissing him but also in shifting her body underneath his in a way which left him breathing hard for reasons apart from his recent exertions.

"O'Hara," he groaned.

"Shut up," she whispered. "What happens in the box stays in the box."

He'd have laughed but her tongue was in his mouth again and there was nothing for it but to kiss the hell out of her while she was kissing the hell out of him.

She shifted in that maddeningly sexy way once more and he let her have it: all the passion he'd felt for her all these years, wrapped up in one kiss—maybe three or four thousand—which took the rest of the oxygen from his lungs and possibly hers.

"Oh, _Carlton_," she murmured… dreamily?

He wasn't even sure who that was, honestly. He could hardly hear over his heart pounding.

She kissed him again, and he sank back into her embrace, utterly lost. Dear God, could she kiss. He should have tried this trapped-in-a-box trick a long time ago.

There was more shifting, of the oh-_hell_-yeah-this-_is_-happening variety, but unexpectedly the box tipped again as the angle of the ramp assisted in the original plan, and suddenly THUD they were on the narrow and SMACK they were down again, and Juliet was on top.

"Well, _that's _better," she purred.

He was going to die. All the ways she was pressing her warm curves to him were going to kill him, if his heart didn't explode first.

That mouth…that incredible mouth of hers… he cupped her face and drank deep, feeling her hunger feeding his, and this wasn't happening, but it was, oh _yeah_ it was, damn…

When he heard the voices his first thought was _get the hell away_, and judging by Juliet's frustrated sigh, hers was the same.

Reality set in fast, though. The voices belonged to cops, and this little interlude was over.

**. . . .**

**. . .**


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER THREE**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

Lassiter stayed clear of Juliet while the warehouse was searched.

Their phones had been dumped by the main door, the Crown Vic was where they'd left it; the guns were long gone, holsters along with them. There was plenty of evidence left to establish that Lawson's gang had been using the warehouse, but where they'd relocated was up for grabs.

At the moment, he didn't care. He was waffling between the professional shame of being taken down by common criminals and the personal aftershock of what happened with Juliet.

He glanced across to where she was speaking to Dobson, noting how disheveled she was (knowing he must look the same)... but still, she was gorgeous. Luminous. Kissable. He—_Carlton Lassiter_—had kissed _that_ mouth, those cheeks; had tasted her throat and her earlobes and felt her grinding against him, and...

Feeling the heat as he remembered it all, he said a bit brusquely to Miller that he wanted to go around one more time, but they should get Juliet back to the station. Having issued this command, he strode away, but Juliet called his name about five seconds later.

"Carlton!"

She could be rather commanding too, so he turned. They were standing within sight of the main doors, but out of earshot of the others. "Go on back to the station, O'Hara."

"Why? Because you're freaked?"

Blunt. He accepted that. "Well, I—"

"Since I _know_ you don't think I'm too delicate to do my job."

"Of course not. I just—"

"I know you, you see. Six years I've known you. I know when you get freaked out and I know _what_ freaks you out, and no way did this not freak you out." She paused. "Not, you know, _during_. But now."

"I'm not arguing with you."

Juliet looked at him quizzically. "Sounds like you are."

_In for a penny_… "No, I mean, I'm not denying being freaked. I _am_ freaked. You're distracting the hell out of me and I can't think straight. You're just too…" _Say it. Saaaay it!_ "Dammit, O'Hara, you're too tempting." He ran his hands through his hair; the hell with professional appearances now.

Her expression softened, and a small smile lit her face. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?"

Despite everything, he had to smile back. "Please go back to the station. We'll talk later."

"Really?" She was suspicious, and he couldn't blame her.

"Yeah. I'll be less freaked." Maybe.

"Maybe," she echoed.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

He didn't get back to the station until mid-afternoon, and Juliet wasn't at her desk. He did have something to say to her, but not here, and not in person, for while he was a card-carrying tough son of a bitch on the job, he knew the limits of his bravery regarding matters of the heart.

His tiredness was legitimate, and his shoulders and hips ached from the box-tossing events, so he signed out for the day, to Vick's surprise but clear approval. She wasn't used to him taking care of himself.

When he got to his car, he sat for a few minutes, letting the thoughts he'd had all afternoon coalesce into something he could work with.

A forced-upon-him therapist had once told him that while planning operations and investigations to allow for every detail and contingency was necessary to be a good cop, there just wasn't any way to make those kinds of plans when it came to personal relationships.

Lassiter knew it was true—hell, he'd _lived_ that truth—and knew he had to get the problem down to its core.

He could either tell Juliet how he felt, or not.

If he told her how he felt, one of two results was possible. She'd reciprocate—green light, or she wouldn't—red light. For whatever reasons in whatever permutations and flavors, those were the two outcomes of telling her: green light, red light. Green would leave him happy; red would keep him unhappy.

If he didn't tell her how he felt, it was all red. He could stay, he could leave; didn't matter. It was just red.

So if 66.6% of the possible outcomes were going to leave him unhappy… well, that sucked. And he was sick of things sucking. He was sick of his own fears and choices being the reason for most of the suckage in his life.

Besides, tomorrow was his frickin' birthday, and 33.3% was better than 0%.

He texted Juliet.

_I've spent my life overthinking everything. I'm good at it. I'm also tired of it. You said "what happens in the box stays in the box" but I'm going to tell you now, in this much smaller box, that I love you, and if you were free, I'd show you how much. But you're not free, so that's really it, isn't it? I'm going home to take aspirin and get drunk, and tomorrow, as they say, is another day._

**. . . .**

**. . .**

She texted him back around six, when a third of the whiskey was gone, he was lying on the sofa staring at the ceiling, and everything looked red.

_I may not yet be free, but what happened is not staying in the box. I don't __want__ it to stay in the box._

He sat up, alert despite the alcohol and the aches.

Another text followed: _Besides, I just found out you're like the best damn kisser in the world. I'm not leaving that in any stinky box._

Lassiter grinned at the screen, and the red cast to his world began to fade away as he answered: _Take your time. You know where I work._

Then he added a second text: _ And live. And drive. And have lunch and coffee. And interrogate suspects, and…_

Juliet sent a smiley face and then: _Pretty sure I love you too, you know._

While he was staring at that, his heart pounding, she sent another.

_Pretty sure I have for a long time._

He let out a breath.

_I'll see you in the morning… but stop drinking. That 'tomorrow is another day' line will feel a lot better without a hangover_.

**. . . .**

**. . .**

When he got to work (no hangover), he found flowers on his desk. Flowers? Why yes. A not-too-frou-frou grouping of blue and purple flowers gathered around a red rose in a silvery, angular vase. He smiled—how could he not?

From his right, and bearing coffee, she said, "Happy birthday, Carlton."

He gazed at her, and she seemed to gaze _into_ him. "Thanks. And for these, too," he added, touching one of the blossoms.

"I like that tie pin," she said, nodding at the Glock, and even though he'd worn it because of her, he still felt the blush on his face. "I'm buying you lunch today, and here, sir, is your first perfect cup of coffee of the morning."

He took it from her, smiling. "You treat a man well."

Juliet beamed. "I have good reasons."

Hmmm, maybe so. "Beautiful earrings," he commented. "Gift?" Felt a little reckless, but the light was looking pretty damned green from where he stood.

She touched the dolphins lightly, a bit pink herself. "Yes. From someone I love."

Lassiter forgot how to breathe for a few dangerous seconds.

"Nothing about yesterday was a dream, Carlton," she whispered. "I'll prove it to you, I promise."

"You don't have to make that promise," he said simply.

"I know. But I am." She stepped a little closer. "There _are_ two things I would change about it, though."

He wondered if anyone would notice if he stepped closer to her, but as it turned out, his feet were frozen to the floor. "Yeah?"

"For one thing, I'd have liked another half hour in the box before we got rescued," she said with a most wicked grin. It faded as she added softly, "And I'd like to edit two of the texts I sent last night—to remove the words 'pretty sure.'"

What was the big deal about heart palpitations anyway?

"O'Hara," he managed, but that was all.

It seemed to be enough for her; she smiled and went back to her desk. Lassiter had to sit down before his legs gave out.

**. . . . **

**. . .**

It was the best birthday he'd ever had, all things considered. In the past, not including the year Juliet inadvertently sent a few dozen ex-cons to his house, she'd always found a way to make the day special, from where they went for lunch to finding him a simple yet perfect little gift, simply because she _wanted_ to.

He spared a thought for Spencer, about to get the axe, and considered it an extra birthday gift that the bunny-loving comedian didn't show up at the station today.

Normally, this far into a nice day, Lassiter would be actively looking for the 'catch' which would bring things back to the reality he knew, but… but nothing happened.

He smiled. A lot.

At the end of their shift Juliet came to his desk. "I have another birthday present for you but I'd like to bring it over to your place tonight. Is that all right?"

"Sure. Can I make you some dinner? Nothing fancy."

Juliet's smile was broad. "Absolutely. I would love that. Did I tell you how good those cupcakes were?"

"About ten times. Maybe twelve." He restrained his smirk.

"Smartass. Did I also tell you I ate them all myself?"

Lassiter laughed. "No, you didn't tell me that. I thought you'd share them out because you're so damned nice."

"Red velvet, Carlton, is nothing to be 'nice' about." She touched his hand lightly. "I'll be over at seven, okay?"

More than okay.

He had time to shower and change and put together some stir-fry and salad, humming the whole time, because… well, hell, because. He knew he should be nervous about her visit, and what she might bring, but in the forefront of his mind was the simple reminder: _just go with it. It's Juliet, and she will never hurt you, and if she wants to give you a chance then shut up and _go with it.

Still, when she knocked, he jumped about a foot, and was probably out of breath when he opened the door.

She had changed into a skirt and green blouse (_green_, he noted; how appropriate) and those dolphin earrings went so well with her blue-gray eyes and he just smiled appreciatively at her for a moment as she stood in the doorway.

"Permission to come aboard?"

"Permission granted." He stood back, and accepted the bottle of wine she thrust into his hand. While he was reading the label, she stepped up and kissed his face lightly. "Hey," he said, putting his arm around her and letting her kiss his mouth next. It was hard to pull back from the sweetness of her lips and the promise they offered. Very hard. "Stir fry awaits."

"Let it wait a little longer." She stood by the end of his sofa, arms folded but not in a tense way (he hoped). "I didn't want to tell you at the station, but I… I talked to Shawn last night." She hesitated. "It's over."

Lassiter looked at her and understood that the woman he'd loved for so long was essentially telling him there were no more barriers between them. Sensing that whooping would be inappropriate, he only asked, "How did he take it?"

She shook her head. "As well as any man who honestly had no clue there was even one thing wrong with the relationship until the very moment it ended, despite multiple conversations and warnings and reminders." She paused. "And death threats." A crooked grin and she continued, "He can be so thoughtful and so sweet and it was that plus his sense of humor which drew me to him in the first place, but… I'd already waited too long for him to grow up. And I was doing that waiting while the man… the very best man… was standing right in front of me."

He was blushing again. "Did it take the box to make that clear?" He had to know.

"No. It was already clear. The box only made it clear that you were finally available."

"_Finally_? O'Hara, it's been six _years_. I was—"

Juliet held up her hand. "Between Victoria and your fear of being linked to another partner, plus your natural inclination to think you don't deserve happiness—and then Marlowe—I never thought there'd be a chance for us." She sighed. "Marlowe really threw me. I was with Shawn by then but when you got involved with her I was stunned how much I hated the idea."

He was surprised, but matched her honesty. "I went for Marlowe because she liked me without me having to work for it. And because she distracted me from you, something I really needed once I found out about your relationship with Spencer." He cleared his throat. "And acted like an ass by polygraphing you."

"You shouldn't have had to polygraph me, because I should have told you sooner. But let's forget that. It's in our long and complicated past and it's time for us to live in the present."

"I like the sound of that very much."

Tilting her head, she smiled curiously at him. "Speaking of presents, what do you want for your birthday?"

Lassiter glanced at the clock. "It's almost over. Does it matter now?"

"To me it does. What would you like?"

He rubbed his chin. _After everything else that's happened, and seeing how honesty has actually paid off here_, _might as well go all the way_. "Well, if you think of this room as a bigger version of the box, and we hold to the rule that whatever happens in the box stays in the box, then what I'd really like is to make love to you until dawn." He watched as her mouth opened slowly, and waited for her smile. "And then I'd like to call in sick for the rest of the week and go on making love to you until at least March."

"I see." She was amused, and titillated; he could see it in her eyes.

"Stopping for stir-fry and showers now and then, of course."

Juliet laughed. "Well, then _I_ must be…" She paused, reaching down into her skirt pocket, turned away from him slightly and then faced him again, wearing a silver gift bow on her blouse. "The most thoughtful shopper _ever._ What do you think?"

Lassiter felt desire for her from the top of his head on down to more southern regions. "Yes, you are. Of course, if you were really thoughtful, you'd already be naked." He grinned. "Instead of gift-wrapped."

She laughed again, stepping into his arms at last. "And if you were such a hot-shot detective, you'd have been naked when you opened the door. I've been waiting a long time to see the whole chest which goes with this," she said, running her fingers under his open collar.

He had no rejoinder other than to kiss her, but then had a better idea; he bent to put his head down to her waist, and while she was wondering what he was doing, he threw her over his shoulder and carried her down the hall to his bedroom.

Juliet laughed all the while, gasping as he dumped her on the bed, then grabbed at him and pulled him down to lie with her, kissing him hungrily.

"Hope you don't mind it's more comfortable than the box," he murmured against her throat.

"Hope you don't mind me being as close to you as if we were still _in_ the box," she said, and started unbuttoning his shirt.

"I don't mind at all." He opened her blouse and slid his hands under her body to unhook her bra. "Let me know if I'm going too fast."

"Let me know if you don't want my hand on you right here," she shot back, and he gasped when he felt her, and that was through the fabric of his slacks.

"No, it's okay," he groaned. "I can help you with that zipper."

"I'm good. Need any help with my skirt?"

"It's never going to fit me, but other than that—" He stopped talking when she kissed him, her tongue insistent, and for a few minutes they were focused on that: mouth to mouth, seeking and giving and tasting.

Nudity ensued soon enough, mutual admiration and caressing following—she of his lean strong body, he of her lovely soft breasts and other sexy 'lady parts'—and then they were together. Her thighs locked around his hips, her body yielding to his demands but taking from him all the same, in a perfect sensual joining of years of longing and desire and love.

The latter was spoken aloud later, when he cupped her face, his fingers in her hair, and whispered, "I love you, Juliet."

"I love you back, Carlton." She smiled, her misty blue eyes full of sincerity and passion. "Happy damned birthday."

"Thank you very damned much," he laughed. "May I have another?"

"Another birthday?"

"Noooo," he drawled, and kissed her perfect lips tantalizingly. "Another taste of you. Another chance to make you crazy hot for me. Another chance to show you how I feel about you."

"Let me think about it," she suggested with a grin. "Okay, I thought about it. Yes." She urged him onto his back and straddled him. "You have until 2062. Get busy."

"I'll be 93 in 2062. You'll still want me?"

"Hell no. I write you off at 92, buster. When I'm 80 I'm moving to Boca and taking up with an illegal alien caretaker at the nursing home."

Lassiter laughed. "That's fair. But you know he'll only want you for your citizenship."

"Don't be a hater," she purred, and licked a path from his sternum up to his Adam's apple.

He was lost after that, especially once she started wriggling on top of him, and while they didn't call in sick the next morning, they did have to throw out the stir-fry and start dinner over again.

All in all, that was an acceptable loss.

And he kept the silver bow.

**. . . . . .**

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . .**

**. .**

_[That's all, folks… with thanks to **AlyshebaFan1** for sussing out that Lassiter's birthday is 2/22 when she posted her very entertaining Lassiet story _**_Just Another Day_**_.]_


End file.
